He laughs
by madelinear
Summary: Sometimes he remembers, and other times he forgets. Sometimes he drinks ...other times he stands in front of pictures ...Sometimes he cries... and other times, he laughs.


He laughs  
By: Sugar Princess  
  
  
Disclaimer: Still not mine. After these many months- nope.  
Dedication: To my dahlins- Empress Five-n-Dime, my VB, my GRRRs, Linds, Heather and, to my oldest   
and dearest nettie- Ambrita!  
Summary: Vignette, so please don't complain to me about run-ons. Thanks. :-)  
  
  
  
It was forbidden.  
  
We both knew it, yet we ignored it. We wanted too much, could have too little,   
and were always aching for more.  
  
The time we spent together was something hurried and hidden, others were spent leisurely and   
without a care. Sometimes we could forget all the elements together as we lay in bed and   
pretend that we were married and we owned a little house and a garden and a dog in the yard.   
And other times our kisses were guilty, because we both felt what we were doing was wrong and   
evil.  
  
Sometimes our eyes would catch one another's when we out in the world, but only for a moment,   
lest any one get any ideas. Sometimes we attempted to ignore one another, for fear that one   
glance would throw us over the edge.  
  
Sometimes I found refuge in his arms and sometimes I found it back in my room- his arms could   
shield me from the world and I felt I could hide there for hours and days and never worry,   
other times I ran from his room with hot tears in my eyes because I knew I was in love and   
didn't want to be.  
  
Sometimes I felt I hated him because I loved him and needed him so, and other times I wanted   
to fight the world to keep them away from him- a harsh and cruel world that could harm my   
darling innocent.  
  
Sometimes we would just chatter and sing the whole night through, holding hands and playing   
cat's cradle with a piece of string, both rushing to his typewriter when he got ideas. Other   
times we needed no words, and our lips knew their way and our hands knew just where to go,   
and nothing would be said but breathless 'I love you's repeated over and over, as if the more   
we said it the truer it became.  
  
Sometimes we'd wake up and watch the sun rise through his window, and I'd lay back on him   
with his arms around my neck and my head against his shoulder, and I'd let myself dream of   
the future, about the little house and the garden and the dog I'd name Moppet, of little   
children whose names escaped me who squealed and giggled and played. I'd count out the dreams   
I had on his fingers, and he'd ask me what I was doing and tears would come to my eyes because   
the dream was just what it was, a dream, and it could never be reality. Other days I'd wake up   
and feel sickened, because I loved him so much and was so bad for him, and as I dressed I'd   
weep silently for influence I had over this boy that could cause his downfall, and I'd leave   
without saying goodbye, save for a long glimpse that I'd treat as our final farewell.  
  
Sometimes we'd talk about what we would do when we were free, as if we were prisoners in the   
Bastille, and we'd talk of places we would go and things we would do, how unashamedly we'd   
swing hands and walk in step without meaning to and how if we wanted to, we could kiss in   
public and just be thought scandalous and not insane.  
  
And then came the end, where I wished I had the courage to slit my wrists instead of doing what   
I did to my poor innocent, hearing him call for me and covering my ears to try to block to   
sound, but it was too late. I would sit just out of sight from the window and sob, hating his   
pleading for tearing me apart, but at the same time, not able to tear myself away because it   
was his voice, and maybe if I just closed my eyes I could hear his voice from happier times-   
teasing me and joking with me and whispering things I'd never heard before in my ears.  
  
Nothing mattered after that, nothing, not that I was sick or the show or anything, not because   
I was dying but because I would die without him near, and I was selfish enough to think no   
further than that. All I knew was that I would die soon and he would be somewhere far, far away,   
perhaps not even in Paris, and I would die with the girls and Harry and Marie but not with him.   
I was not as scared as death as I was of delirium, where my common sense would leave me and   
all I would want was him, and I would be no longer to recall why he wasn't there, beside me,   
where he should be.  
  
And everything became a blur to me.  
  
Suddenly he was there, and I was fighting him off, thinking all the while how ironic   
it was that not only was I pushing him away but that he was being threatened with death.   
I giddily wondered that if he was shot, would there be a bullet left for me?  
  
And then there were bright lights and music, laughter and costumes with too much makeup   
and fake jewelry. Something papery fluttered down to the ground, and tears tracked makeup   
down my face, and the feeling that I could die right there without protest, because I had   
lost him.  
  
There uncertainty and doubt, glimmers of hope and a radiance of adoration when he came to me,   
and his arms came around me and there could have twenty-thousand people around us or no one,   
and I didn't care, because he was there and I loved him and all was going to be right again.   
He could do that to me- hold me and make the world seem full of daisies and buttercups and   
giggles and rainbows over houses with gardens and dogs named Moppet and little children running   
around who called me 'mummy' and him 'papa'.   
  
We were going to live forever, him and me, always and forever, and nothing could stop us now   
because we were above the clouds and the people, up in the heavens where nothing could touch us,   
and we would stay young and in love forever, caught in this moment, trapped in amber.  
  
Darkness.  
  
It was so cold as the curtain fell, and this time not even his kiss could dispel the chill that   
had locked itself into my bones and now around my chest. There were things falling down from the   
sky- not the sky, the ceiling- little rose petals and for an instant it was spring and we were   
somewhere in a garden, and then a flower girl at our wedding was throwing petals as I stepped   
towards him. And just as I made it to the altar the ice got a grip on my chest and I couldn't   
breath again, and I started to pray, dear God, not now, please, not now...  
  
It was cold, colder than it had been a minute ago when the curtains were open and the lights   
were bearing down on me, making face paint smear and run. Now something was running down my   
face but I knew it wasn't my lipstick.  
  
There was a wretched noise, and I was started when I realized it came from me, and that rasping   
was my pathetic attempt at breathing, which everyone else seemed to accomplish without much   
trouble. And then he was holding me, and it wasn't as cold anymore, but his face was wavering-   
sometimes it was very close and other times very far away, sometimes very bright and other times   
so dark I couldn't see him anymore.  
  
I reached out to touch him- or did he touch me? I don't remember, but I felt him, and he was   
there, even if I couldn't see him.  
  
It was raining again, and I couldn't quite understand it, because a minute ago little petals   
had been falling and now it was raining, but we were still inside.  
  
But, finally I regained my vision and wasn't raining- it was his tears and my tears, all mixing   
on my cheeks, and they were sticky with wet face paint and liquid sorrow, and I would have given   
all my diamonds and had them replaced with tears, because his tears were so beautiful.  
  
He was saying things to me, whispering words only I could hear, just like before, only now we   
both knew I'd never hear them again, and then his lips were on mine a final time, and the kiss   
was sweet and sad, and my lips were cold because death had swooped between us and kissed them   
first.  
  
Sometimes he remembers, and other times he forgets. Sometimes he drinks, and other times he   
stands in front of pictures, pictures of a woman long since laid to rest by people who claimed   
to have loved her.  
  
Sometimes he forgets on purpose, and other times he remember the house and the garden, Moppet   
and hands held, Cat's Cradles and promises whispered.  
  
Sometimes, he cries.  
  
And other times, he laughs. 


End file.
